(Genoa, 29 November 2010, Monday)
538_STRACCIO OF CLOUD
a shred of cloud that the wind fray
while I write,
is a page torn from the notebook,
tight in his fist and opened for a question and relaxed,
curled a memory that fades in blue
I just read the sentence starting
where was your name:
then the rest is gone,
pushed into the air on a straight line
that hurts the horizon in view
can not help but
rewrite that always start from scratch every time
as well as possible and with the 'Adding some detail
but with the same uncertain final
remains incomplete
a sheet
rewritten several times and still full of errors:
not as perfect
this morning that deserves every superlative kind.
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